


Achievement Hunter's Creed

by niknakmess



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Assassin's Creed AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:45:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niknakmess/pseuds/niknakmess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Pettit is a master assassin within the city of Boston, Massachusetts. And once friction begins between the colonists and the British empire, he realizes he'll need more than just himself to take down such a force. Not only have tensions begun to rise, but a trouble from John's past may also be bubbling to the surface. Based on if the AH guys were in the AC3 world.</p><p>**Achievement Hunter names have been changed to better fit the time period</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As stated in the summary, names have been changed to ones that fit the American Revolution era.
> 
> As in this chapter:  
> Jack Pattillo is known as John Pettit  
> Gavin Free is known as Gabriel Frer
> 
> Most likely I will write the name changes in the notes before each chapter, just to keep it easy.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and feel free to leave me some feedback.

Boston Harbor, January 1769

The sound of the slap bounced off the four walls of the ship storeroom.

The place was dark, the only source of light coming from a hole in the roof, and the shine of the half moon. The gold buttons on Gabriel’s red coat glinted, as he sat tied to a chair straight under the cavity. His attacker, and kidnapper stuck to the shadows, he had yet to see their face. Gabriel turned his head and spat blood onto the ground, some dribbled down his chin, staining his once pristine uniform. Thick docking ropes were tied around his chest keeping his arms from moving. A large black bruise was covering his right eye, and several slashes had been made to his body. In a sum up: he was a wreck. He spat another mouthful of blood onto the ground.

“What are you bloody well doing,” Gabriel called out to the shadows, struggling a bit against his restraint. Sweat had formed a nice film onto his skin, his right eye stung, his uniform was caked with blood, and he had no idea what was going to happen to him. He swallowed audibly before speaking again, “What’s the matter to afraid to face me yourself?” A booming laughter was heard from the darkness.

“Yer really not in a place to be making threats,” John dipped a match into his pipe; he waved it out with his hand. He took a few puffs, then stepped towards his captive. 

Gabriel swallowed again as the man stepped forward. He was a tall man, muscular as well, his face hidden by a white hood. Belts crisscrossed at his chest, they were loaded with ammunition, medicine pockets, and throwing knives. At his sides hung two flintlock pistols and a sword was lazily attached to his hip. He pulled the pipe from his mouth, and bent down towards Gabriel, blowing smoke into his face. 

“You are a scrawny one aren’t cha?” John circled around the chair, taking a hit from his pipe every few moments, and exhaling the smoke back towards the soldier. He could see the boy struggling to hold back a cough, John narrowed his eyes. He pulled back on the soldier’s sweat soaked hair, so the boy’s face went to the sky. Unsheathing his hidden blade, he pressed it towards his prisoner’s throat. “What’s yer name,” John asked.

Gabriel felt his Adam’s apple bob against his throat. The steel of the man’s blade was cool against his sweat soaked skin. His eyes were forced upward to look at the half moon by the man strongly tugging his hair. The small amount of blood that began pooling up in his mouth slid down his throat by the action. Gabriel never felt more exposed. “Gabriel,” he croaked out “Gabriel Frer.” He darted his eyes around the ceiling feeling some panic arise in his stomach. He knew his smart mouthing would catch up to him one day. He felt the blade leave his skin, and the tension on his hair cease. Gabriel snapped his head back forward, feeling as though that would protect his neck even more somehow.

John chortled, shaking his head a bit. His blade retracted with a distinctive sound. He swung himself around to the front of the wooden chair, squatting so he would be eye level with the soldier. Lowering his hood, he stuck his hand out “John Pettit.” He noticed the boy glare at his extended hand, for Gabriel’s own were trapped at his side. John smirked a bit, then let his hand fall back onto his thigh with a slap. “You angry at me?”

Gabriel bit back his snarky retort. Of course he was angry, furious even; anyone would be after being captured from their quartering house in the dead of night. The man-John, stroked at his large orange beard. He looked like a heathen mountain man, and perhaps if Gabriel were not in the current situation he would tell John that he should shave before he looks like a complete savage. Gabriel grinned at the thought. “Look, I don’t know what you want-“

“Oh well that’s easy,” John waved a dismissive hand “I want your body to be hung on the scaffolding in the town square.” John flashed him a smile, as the kid seemed to go paler is that was at all possible. “In fact,” John rose from his squatting position “the only reason you’re still alive is I need some information.” He relit his pipe took a hit, the offered it out towards Gabriel, who shook his head, and turned it away in an act of defiance. John shrugged; putting his boot up onto the bottom of the seat he began tipping Gabriel back towards the gaping hole in the wooden floorboards. Unsheathing his blade, he inspected its shine in the light idly. “Why are your troops in Boston?” His tone was calm, but the deadly undertones shone through.

Gabriel clutched on the side of his chair for dear life, the skin over his knuckles was extremely taunt, his heart rate accelerated. He glanced over his shoulder only to see the dark waters below. In his current state, falling in would surely mean death. He looked forward as best he could; his other option did not seem very welcoming either. “I don’t know,” Gabriel pleaded. His chair tipped back more, and he could feel the warmth of blood rushing to his head. “Really, I swear I don’t,” Gabriel felt as though he was on the brink of tears, “I only enlisted a couple weeks ago. I was only doing what I was told.” A single laugh from John pierced the air.

“That’s what they all say,” John concentration was barely focused on the soldier. He wasn’t going to kill him, but Gabriel didn’t need to know that. His foot was firmly hooked under the chair, Gabriel would only fall if John wished it.

No amount of training Gabriel had had prepared him for a situation like this. All the practice had been done with a formal setting. Structured lines, and fair play. But this man, this John Pettit, obviously did not play by the rules of war. He had knocked him out and kidnapped Gabriel. John may fight for the colonies but certainty not in any traditional militia. “I swear on my life, I don’t know anything.” 

John chuckled “I thought by this point you would realize your life does not mean that much to me.” He took another drag from his pipe. John tipped Gabriel forward more so, and held his pipe up for him to see. “Like it,” John questioned “hand crafted by some friends, you see.” John made a game of pulling the chair back and forth with his foot “people like me, they like what I do, because I’m protecting them from you people.” John waved his pipe hand towards the open air. “These next couple years are going to be hell for you if you stay where you are so, Gabriel Frer, I’m going to offer you a proposition.” John withdrew his blade once again, and dropped his chair to the floor with an echoing slam. 

Gabriel had never had his eyes squeezed so tight in his entire life, including the time a man’s musket accidentally went off and almost shot him on his second day at camp. He thought he was finally done for; that he had been staring death in the face, and it was a bearded mountain man. He took in a sharp breath as the chair hit the floor. In a state of disbelief Gabriel lowered his head to watch as John paced in front of him. He was having a hard time comprehending him though; it felt as though in his state of panic all of his senses had shut down, all Gabriel could do was stare ahead. 

“You hearing me boy,” John questioned. Gabriel shook his head left and right slowly. John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you want to live or do you want to die,” John asked. His patience was wearing thin, and his moral compass was slowly becoming less visible in his mind.

“Live,” Gabriel barely squeaked out the word. His stomach felt like it was flipping inside him, and it was taking all of his strength not to lose his dinner right then and there.

“Fantastic,” John smirked, and pulled a dagger out from one of his belts. He saw the fear return to Gabriel’s face, “calm down I already gave you the choice.” John bent down and began sawing away at the knot he had tied Gabriel up with. The rope gave, and piled to the floor around the chair.

Gabriel stumbled as he stood; he pressed a hand to his stomach, then looked down only to see his blood splattered onto the floor. The warmth drained from his face, and he ran to the nearest wall. He dry heaved a couple of times, then spit out the blood and stomach acid that had arisen into his mouth. A bellowing laugh sounded from behind him. He wiped the excess fluid from his mouth with the sleeve of his uniform. He felt John clap a hand onto his shoulder, Gabriel looked up at him with heavy eyes.

“Welcome to the Brotherhood.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is an introduction to Geoff's character, I hope you enjoy it.  
> Thanks so much for all the positive feedback on my first chapter guys, it means a lot to me. 
> 
> Once again names have been changed such as:  
> Geoff Ramsey is known as George Ransom  
> Jack Pattillo is known as John Pettit  
> Gavin Free is known as Gabriel Frer
> 
> Leave me some feedback if you want, I'd love to hear it.

Outskirts of Boston- Camp of the Minutemen, Early May 1771

George Ransom never liked the color red. Not when he was young and learned it bled from his veins, and not now when the enemy wears the shade. Kill British soldiers; make them pay for what they’ve done. His father’s words had rung in his ears since they had been said years ago. 

George ceased polishing his gun, which earned him a couple looks from the other soldiers. He blankly stared ahead into the surrounding woods. All laughing around him had reached an abrupt stop, the men stopped pretending to shoot at ghosts of red coats, and a couple guys tried to follow his gaze into the darkness. “Ransom,” a voice called out his name, and George snapped from his trance brought on by the memory, he glanced to his left. Tim Bedel had broken the seemingly everlasting silence, “You all good there?” George nodded his head slowly. His thoughts always seemed to be lost when they spent an overwhelming time at camp. During battles, George was in the moment, and his mind could focus on ten things at once. But once he was stationary only one thought remained in his head and no amount of joking, gun cleaning, or practice shooting could get it out.

They had set up camp some two weeks ago, and have yet to move from the spot. None of them knew what was going on the only thing the colonel uttered was “we’ll be here for a while, make yourselves comfortable”, the troops haven’t heard from him since. No talk of oncoming battles, or enemy troops moving out. Hell, he barely left his tent other than to piss. They all assumed something big was about to happen, that he was ceaselessly planning. And they weren’t wrong.

The laughing continued after George had been brought out of his state. Some of the guys threw spoonfuls of week old stew at each other, others made shapes with their hands in the swaying flames. George was uninterested, the weeks spent cooped up here had made him antsy, and he could feel his attention slipping. He leaned his musket up against the log the boys had brought over so they could sit. Pushing on his knees he rose, he stared at the fire’s flames for a couple moments. Then hurdled the log, and walked towards the faraway field.

“Ransom,” he turned at the sound of his name. “Not too far,” Tim Bedel said with a smile. George gave him a slight nod, and a curt wave with his hand to show he understood. Shoving his hands into the short pockets of his trousers, he sulked his way into the darkness.

The rains had been coming fast and heavy for the past month, but have finally been letting up. Nevertheless, George’s boots made an unpleasant squelching sound as he strode through the mud. The rain had not only turned the field into a muddy landscape, but washed up some poorly buried bodies of soldiers. His foot connected with that of an overturned red coat. “Son of a,” he looked down to see the corpse, narrowed his eyes then kicked again for good measure “even when they’re dead they still manage to piss me off.” After scraping off some mud from his boot onto the dead man’s jacket George pressed on.

He walked until he could barely see the glow of the camp in the distance. Easing himself down a on a nearby boulder with a sigh, he turned his head upwards and glanced at the stars. Pulling out a flask from his inside pocket, he took a swig. The alcohol burned all the way to his stomach, and felt so good. The problem with camp was a constant fire at night left little for the stars to overpower. He often found himself escaping just to grab a glance at the natural lights. George smiled for the slightest second of time. He stretched out his legs he laid back, folding his arms behind his head, and watched the small lights twinkle until his eyelids felt heavy. 

His eyes snapped open at the shouts in the distance. A gun fired off, and George sprung himself upright, and glanced over at where his beacon would be. The fire was out. Trouble. His feet sank into the mud as he leapt from the boulder. Tearing his legs from the ground he sprinted back towards camp, his heavy breaths escaping into the cool night air in tangible puffs.

George reached the camp as quickly as his feet would allow. Their white tents had been torn down, bullet holes littered the fabric and ground. A couple feet away the fire had smoldered down to barely embers, leaving the dark to creep further into the deserted camp. At that moment, George only wished he had brought his musket with him on his walk. Warily, he reached down and slipped out the extra knife he kept stowed in his boot. Questions filled his head as he ventured further into the camp. What happened, and who did this being the most prominent two.

His steps were even and cautious, turning himself efficiently every once and awhile to watch his own back. George approached the fallen logs where his fellow men had been sitting and joking around only a short time ago. There were obvious signs of a struggle, large tracks in the dirt where heels had been dug in, George glanced to where he had been sitting, his musket was gone. He sighed and squatted down to examine the ground more closely. Picking up some dirt he rubbed it in between his fingers, and then something flashed in the dying light of the fire. A black liquid stuck in his peripheral vision. Dipping his fingers into the substance, and holding it up to the light he could see the distinctive red color. Blood, fresh too. George rubbed it onto his trousers, gripped his knife tighter, and followed the tiny trail of glinting liquid.

He could hear the wheezing gasps of breath before he could even see Tim Bedel. The fire light hit him just perfectly enough that his wounds were put on display. A large gash ran across his forehead, causing blood to flood down on his face until it was nothing but red with spots of white skin. A bayonet was shoved into his upper arm, and his hand was tucked into his coat covering whatever wound lay on the right side of his chest. George scrambled to lean down next to his friend. “Tim,” he whispered, no response. “Tim,” he said more frantically, suddenly Tim’s eyes snapped open and his features became etched with pain as he reached out and grabbed George by the front of his jacket. Tim pulled him closer.

“C-c-c,” Tim turned his head and coughed blood onto the already soiled ground “Colonel attacked us, red coats out of nowhere, hit me over the head.” His head thumped against the ground as he tried to catch his breath.

“Just calm down Timmy,” George said straightening his voice “you’re going to be all right.” He opened Tim’s jacket, and lifted the hand that was covering his chest. Blood slowly spread further into his white undershirt, and George could plainly see the bullet sized hole. “Fuck,” he whispered to himself. Tearing off a piece of his own jacket, and balling it up he created a compress. He placed it onto Tim’s bleeding chest, and positioned Tim’s own bloodied hand over it. George could feel Tim’s half lidded eyes watching him

“Ransom,” George turned to him, even the blood could not hide the fact that his face was completely drained of color. “Get ‘em for me okay?” George swallowed, and nodded his head slowly. “I’m gonna be okay,” Tim whispered, his face contorted a bit, the pain seizing him “I’m gonna be okay, I’m gonna…” His words were lost to the hands of death.

“No, no, fuck, come on buddy,” George pulled Tim’s body closer, and applied small pats to his left cheek. “Come on stay with me, you’re going to be okay right?” George, pressed onto his chest with both his hands a couple times “you said so yourself you’re going to be okay, come on, you fucker don’t give up on me.” But Tim was already gone, and George already knew that. He slowly stopped pressing on his friend’s lifeless body. He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, he wanted to do something. George placed his fingers over Tim’s open eyelids, and closed them, so he only appeared to be asleep. Grabbing Tim’s pistol, George stalked away, hoping he’d have the chance to bury his friend’s body, after he massacred those responsible. He set out for the colonel’s tent.

He could hear hushed voices whispering to each other frantically from inside the only white tent unaffected by the struggle. Words like “hostages, prisoners, captured” pounded against his eavesdropping ears. Peering between the flaps of the tent George could see at least six red coats huddled in a circle, and his ‘Colonel’ pacing in front of them. “We have to move them out tonight,” one red coat whispered to his brethren.

“We’re still missing one,” Colonel pounded a fist onto his desk causing one of the soldiers to jump “of course it’s the most skilled one, the most valuable one.” George felt his eyes widened at his realization. Colonel was taking his troops and selling them to British forces as prisoners and hostages. And apparently his own head was worth quite a lot. No wonder Colonel always returned, but all his troops had ‘died in battle’, there were no casualties, only number figures. George clicked back the hammer on his pistol as quietly as he could. If his fellow soldiers were to be sold then they’d have to be close by, and be ready for shipment off to some red coat camp. Keeping both of his weapons handy, he tip toed around to the back of the tent.

Light from the tent provided a spotlight onto the area where his fellow men were. A large wooden post had been erected from the ground, all the men sat with their backs to the it, rags in their mouth, and eyes covered. Each one of them bore bruises or cuts in some way. George smirked; none of them would go down without a fight. Checking over his shoulder, he watched as the shadows moved around inside the tent, and once he was clear, crawled his way over to his fellow men.

Seven of them were tied to the post, George approached the one around the back, as to keep away from the light as best as possible. He quickly shot out his hand and further covered the man’s mouth. “It’s me, it’s George,” he said slowly, as the man’s muffled protests and curses moved against his palm. ”Don’t worry; I’m going to get you out.” Placing his knife between the ropes that bound his hands together, George made quick work of sawing away. The ropes buckled, and the soldier ripped the blindfold and mouth gag from his face.

“Georgie aren’t you a sight,” Samuel Switzer announced as quietly as he could in his southern drawl. Sam rubbed at his rope burned wrists. “God damn colonel jumped us ‘long wit the bunch of red coats.” George smiled a bit, then moved on to the next soldier.

Six of them had been freed without much fuss. All had known to keep quiet, but the last, David Hall, was new and trembled as George continued to saw at his ropes. David let out a tiny squeak as the ropes fell from his wrists. He removed the boy’s blindfold, and David gave him a look as though he wanted to hug him, he removed the gag from his own mouth. George motioned with his hand for David to follow him to where the tent’s light did not shine. Their group had formed a small cluster, discussing their situation in a hushed whisper.

“We should leave,” Jeremiah Owens said quickly as George and David joined the group

“You shitting me,” Sam retorted “I wanna look the guy in the eye who did this tah me,” he indicated to the gash running down his left cheek “and give ‘em a matching one.” A quiet battle broke out between the men, curses were flung left and right. And Samuel Switzer had grabbed Jeremiah by the front of his coat, having a look in his eyes as though he wanted to knock him out.

“Everyone calm down,” George said through clenched teeth. “Owens has the right idea, we don’t have any weapons, and as much as I’d like to fuck those guys up, I like my life more.” Hall hurriedly nodded his head in agreement with George. Suddenly, George’s pistol was snatched from his hand, and Samuel now held it to the air.

“Who made you commander huh,” he said teasingly, Sam cocked his head to the side “jus’ cause you and Tim were ‘ere first don’t mean shit, and I ain’t gonna lie down and take it.” He pulled back the hammer.

“Sam no,” George half whispered, half screamed as he reached for the gun, but it was already too late, Sam fired off a bullet, and the shadows inside the tent stirred. “You fucking idiot,” George yelled “now we’re all screwed. Scatter! All of you.” But it was too late; the red coats emerged from the tent muskets loaded, and ready to shoot. Sam ran towards them, pistol aimed. He was shot down immediately. His body hit the ground with a hard thump, the other men yelled out shouts, some advancing towards the red coats, others fleeing. George felt something grab his coat arm, he spun to punch his attacker, only to see David Hall indicating with his head the direction of the city. He took off in a sprint with Hall not far behind. More shots were fired and more bodies fell to the ground. George looked behind him and saw them now, four dead on the ground, two others being chased by three red coats, and three red coats starting to advance on him and David.

“Ransom,” Colonel called out his name “you owe me some prisoners.” George could hear the smugness in his voice, and it took all of his strength not to run back there, knife in hand, and find the Colonel’s heart a sufficient place to bury the blade. He heard a shot be fired off from behind them, and then a body hit the ground. David Hall screamed, and grabbed his lower leg. George dug his heels into the soft earth, made a quick turn, grabbed the boy’s body, and started dragging him by his arms. “Come on, you’re fine, you’re all right,” George said, but David continued his wails. He could just barely see the city lights, before another shot rang out. He felt David’s arms go limp in his hands. “Fuck,” he dropped the body, and turned his back on it, using the last of his strength to reach the city border.

George’s breathing was labored, and he could feel his body telling him to quit. He fought through the pain, until he reached the only open building, an Inn with a bustling bar. He ducked into the door, and pressed his back against it until he heard the soldier’s boots pass. He turned to face the room, and noticed upon his entrance that all conversation and music had stopped. Someone in the back coughed lightly.

“Eh drink fo’ a soldier,” the words were barely intelligible from a drunk voice in the crowd, but almost the entire room raised a glass to him, then continued their mindless drunken chatter. George let out a long breath, and then place his hands on his knees trying to catch whatever air he could in his lungs. Sweat drips streaked down his face, his entire body felt sticky with grime, and the atmosphere he was currently in left little to no fresh air. A pair of brown leather boots entered his downcast vision. 

“Seems like you ran into some trouble eh,” a gruff voice questioned. George slowly rolled his body straight. He stared for a bit. In front of him was a man almost completely made up of weapons. Pistol here, knives there, everywhere was some other type of armament. “Well, am I wrong,” he asked. George shook his head, almost certain he would have agreed to whatever this man said in his current state. George was good with weapons and battle but right now he was exhausted and he’d rather not provoke a bear. “How about I buy you a drink?” George nodded more feverishly than he would like to admit.

He plopped down at the stained wooden table across from the hooded man. They sat in a pregnant silence for quite some time, until the man let out a low whistle. Through the bustling crowd came a red coat soldier carrying three mugs of ale in his two hands. George felt a growl rumble in the back of this throat, had this all been a trick? Was the man in white only there to bring him back to the Colonel? And yet, he was too weak to make a move from the seat.

“Oi John,” the man in red called as he held the cups above his head to keep them out of reach of the rowdy crowd. He battled his way through, and sat down next to John. “Crazy crowd tonight,” he said in an obvious accent, his eyes darted to George who glared at him with all the strength he could muster up. “Who’s your friend?” he indicated to George with a jerk of his thumb.

“Gabriel, this is George Ransom,” the man said “George, Gabriel Frer, and I’m John Pettit.” George snorted at John’s last name. Lowering his hood, John stared a George for a short amount of time. He looked as though he were about to collapse. “Hey buddy,” George picked up his head from the slackened position it was in. John pushed the mug towards him “drink, you’ll feel better.”

George falteringly reached out for the cup watching Gabriel as he did so, the boy only gave him a confused look. He snatched it like a viper striking its prey, and then guzzled the whole thing in one gulp. John was right he did feel much better, wiping his lips with the sleeve of his jacket he looked at Gabriel once more “what’s he doin’ here?”

Gabriel sulked at George’s words, he crossed his arms. “Wot’s his problem with me,” Gabriel said in an accusing tone. Seriously he’d only just met the guy.

John had a realization, and had to keep from smacking his hand to his own forehead. “Yer still wearing yer uniform ya idiot,” John gave Gabriel a quick smack on the back of the head. “Of course he don’t trust us, he’s been running from these guys for the past hour,” John pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“So you’re not a red coat then,” George kept his eyes on Gabriel.

“Course he ain’t,” John said “trust me I associate with the bloody bastards the same way you do, or did I guess.” George snapped his head in John’s direction.

“You been spyin’ on me?”

“Well I saw your whole little scuffle back at your camp, and I’ll admit I been watching you closely for the past couple years,” John took a swig of his drink, then pulled out his pipe, stuck it between his teeth, and lit it. John let out a few puffs on his pipe, and looked over at Gabriel. He was idling himself by picking at the stitched up uniform. John slapped his hand, Gabriel let out a whine “come on you know how much it cost for me to get a tailor to fix that.”

“Not to interrupt a lover’s spat, but why the fuck are you even talking to me,” George was tired, and honestly all he wanted was to crawl into an inn bed at this point, and let the alcohol work its magic. Gabriel and John exchanged a quick glance, then both looked at George. “Well,” George tilted his chair onto the back two legs, and folded his arms over his chest “I’m listenin’.” 

“Well George, if I may call you that,” John started, and George gave him a curt nod signaling it was all right “my friend Gabriel and I are part of a brotherhood here in Boston.” George’s chair fell back onto the four legs. He leaned in, and the two followed suit.

“You guys are the white and red shadows,” George said in a whisper “we used to share stories about you two all the time at camp.” He observed as Gabriel gave John a smug smile. John in return smacked him on the nose. The boys had often heard stories along the road about two men who committed acts against British soldier throughout Boston, and called themselves a ‘brotherhood’; they were never caught, and never seen. George then looked over to Gabriel, who was rubbing his nose “somehow I find this very hard to believe.”

“White and red shadow,” Gabriel questioned as he released his nose “is that really what they call us?” George nodded, and then Gabriel narrowed his eyes “what do you mean hard to believe?” George shrugged, and smirked a bit to himself.

“Anyway,” John said, sending a glare toward Gabriel, who held up his hands defensively “I’ve been watching you for quite some time, and I think we could use someone like you in the brotherhood.” John puffed on his pipe again. “The only one I’ve had to interact with for a couple of years now has been this guy,” he directed with his head towards Gabriel “and you can see how easy that is.”

“Damn John you are just ripping on me today aren’t you,” Gabriel leaned back and crossed his arms, an obvious pout forming on his lips.

“So what do you say there Ransom,” George, who had been trying to keep his eyes away from John, looked directly at him, John stuck out his hand. “Want to join our brotherhood?”

George stared at John’s hand for some time. The stories soldiers had told along the road sounded intense. They spoke about how the two shadows dove off of rooftops, and could poison ten red coats without even being noticed. George had been used to his style of fighting, straight and outright. Still.

“I promise you can get whatever revenge you want,” John said. George could feel his smile go crooked. He grasped John’s hand in his own and gave a hearty shake. “It’ll be useful to have someone who actually knows how to use a gun other than me.”

“Come on John, you’re killing me, you know I’ve been trying,” Gabriel whined. George and John shared a laugh, and clinked their mugs together. John raised his, George and Gabriel followed suit.

“To the brotherhood.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next up is Michael!  
> I hope you all like it, sorry it's been such a long time since I've updated this.
> 
> Michael Jones is known as Malcolm Johnston  
> Gavin Free is known as Gabriel Frer  
> Jack Pattillo is known as John Pettit

Main square of Boston, July 1771

Steam hissed from the cool water as Malcolm dunked the newly forged steel into its depth. The red hot metal soon cooled, leaving behind a spectacular metallic sheen. Another perfectly made blade. He rubbed the sweat from his brow with a leather gloved hand. Malcolm had been working at this smithing stand for ten years of his life. He started as merely an errand boy, relaying messages from the master to clientele. He’d stand out in the square yelling out prices, deals, and the overall good quality of the craft made at the shop. Once the old owner had collected a fat enough stack of coins, he practically threw the stand at Malcolm.

So now at the age of twenty-five he owned the most successful blacksmithing stand in Boston. A fact he was quite proud of. Malcolm observed the newest blade, and after deeming it passable, positioned it on a fixture on the wall. He admired his weapons for a moment, then removed the black apron from over his head, and hung it from a hook on the nearby post.

“Eh boss,” Malcolm turned to see his two employees, Jesse Kipp and Henry Gaddy, moving towards the back door. “We gon go and grab some lunch, you wanna come?” Malcolm shook his head, and stared at a piece of iron.

“No, you two go ahead,” he waved them away “I got something I want to finish.” The two looked at each other, shrugged, and made their way out of the stand. Malcolm picked up the chunk of metal, and turned it in his hand. “An axe maybe,” Malcolm held it up at eye level, attempting to see the weapon that lie inside. “No, no, a knife then?” Again he shook his head. He opted for a wooden chair at the front of the shop that Gaddy sat in when people were scarce. Putting his feet up on the counter where prices were discussed, he tossed the metal up and down. He snatched it half way through his toss, and stared at it. “What are you?”

“Malcolm Johnston,” a voice said from over the counter, Malcolm parted his feet so they looked to be a fan. He stared at the two red coat soldiers that stood in his view. Moving his feet down from the counter he stood up from the chair. He placed his hands down. Malcolm wasn’t oblivious to the feuding going on between colonists and British, but who was he to turn away business? This was his job after all.

“What can I help you with, new sword? Ammunition? Anything specific need to be made, guaranteed to be done in less than three days.” Malcolm regurgitated all his normal business talk; it had become second nature at this point. The second soldier raised an eyebrow, and exchanged a glance with the first.

“Um, no.” the soldier at the front grabbed and pulled out a piece of parchment from his inside pocket, “This is a declaration from the troops of Britain, you are to vacate the premises immediately, hand over ownership and deed, and no longer operate business within the city of Boston.” He extended the paper to Malcolm, whose bottom lip had dropped ever so slightly.

Blinking back the look of surprise, Malcolm grabbed the parchment; it crinkled under his firm grip. He ripped the nicely tied red ribbon from its position and quickly scanned the inked words. “No longer under your control…hereby” Malcolm mumbled out the finely written sentences. He stopped at one point, and felt his eyes widened “you demand.” He gritted his teeth. Though he may not seem it, Malcolm was infamous for a bad temper, and God help anyone who dared argue with him while he’s in a rotten mood.

“Sir, we ask that you collect any belongings and leave,” the front most soldier deadpanned to him. “This stand no longer belongs to you.”

“Like hell I’ll leave,” he shouted, causing a couple nearby heads to turn “this place is mine, and you’ll have to take it from my dead body before I give it over willingly.” He watched the second soldier’s smile grow. The first placed a hand against his fellow fighter’s chest.

“Mister Johnston, Malcolm,” the first one chose a calm tone, Malcolm sneered at him. “We were instructed to use any means necessary, and my friend here,” he indicated with a thumb behind him, Malcolm flicked his eyes over. “Let’s just say they call him Sir. Trigger Happy back at camp.” Malcolm glared.

“You threatening me?”

The soldier held up his hands “no, just a warning really.” Malcolm could see the, ‘Sir Trigger Happy’, feeling the pistol that hung from the belt across his hips. He cocked his head to the side, and sneered at Malcolm. Challenging him to make a move. Malcolm ran his tongue along his teeth, and when he brought his head to look back at the soldier in front of him, spat in his face.

He stumbled back, knocking the soldier behind him out of formation. Malcolm quickly turned and grabbed the sword he just made from the back wall. He held the parchment above his head; the soldier had just finished wiping his face free of spit. “This is what I think of your ‘declaration’,” he shouted and threw the scroll into the nearby furnace. Malcolm took off into a sprint, and leapt over the counter. The two soldiers stepped back at his sudden appearance. The front one drew his sword, and the back had his pistol ready and aimed. Malcolm darted his eyes between the two. He could handle the one with the sword, he knew swords, hell he probably made that sword. But as Sir Trigger Happy clicked back the hammer, he could feel his stomach drop. Malcolm could see the sadistic smile grow on the gun toter’s lips.

“Eh you,” he heard someone call from behind him “duck!” An explosion sounded from behind him, as Malcolm dropped to the cobble stone street. He looked up to see the soldier glance down at his chest; he touched the wound, and came back with the sticky red fingers.

“Damn,” was all he could mutter before dropping to the ground. A scream rang out, and the crowds began to scatter. Malcolm smirked, and from his position on the cobblestones, knocked the other’s sword away from his loose hand. He pointed the tip towards the soldier’s throat.  
“Back away, one death was enough for me,” Malcolm narrowed his eyes “for now.” The soldier held up his hands in defense, turned on his heel and raced away from the scene. “Yeah, you better run!” Malcolm called after him. He then turned to the body on the street, tipped his head, and bowed dramatically “Sir.” He felt someone clap a hand onto his shoulder.

“Yeah get out of here you slimy little git,” the voice was the same as the one who told him to duck “well, we right took care of them, didn’t we?” Malcolm followed the hand down an arm, to see a body, clad in a British uniform. He sprung away from the man, and held his sword up, ready for another bout. “H-hey calm down now,” the Brit said “I’m on your side, remember?” Malcolm narrowed his eyes.

“You on my side, why you dressed like them,” he lifted the sword higher, and raised his chin a bit. The man in front of him looked down, and suddenly looked very frustrated with himself.

“God damn it Gabriel, ya little nob,” he stomped his foot, scolding himself. Malcolm took a step back. What an idiot. “No, I swear, I was sent here by John Pettit. He said you know him?” He lowered his sword, but kept a wary gaze on the man in front of him.

“You know John,” Malcolm asked. John had been coming around the stand since Malcolm was twenty. The old owner always said that he was one of their most important customers, and that whatever order he made was to be put at the top of the list. He often spoke as if the entire balance of the world rested on John’s shoulders. Only once Malcolm took over the business did he truly understand why his boss had put John on such a high pedestal, his work was much more important than any soldier, or sell sword’s could ever be. After his rise to ownership, Malcolm still provided John with any, and all supplies he needed, discounted price and repair made cheap of course. 

“Ha yes, I guess you can say we work together,” Malcolm felt his eyes widen at the new information. John? John Pettit hired a man like this to work with? What did he slam his head on the street that day?

“He made you his partner,” when Malcolm said it out loud, it was even harder to believe if that was at all possible.

“Well actually,” the red coat started to say, then his eyes began darted around. Malcolm looked around himself. Many confused stares were being thrown their way, especially with a red coat’s dead body merely feet away. “We should talk somewhere else, won’t be long before others arrive,” the man whispered behind a hand.

“Why should I trust you?” The sound of hoof beats rang off in the distance. The Brit smiled.

“You don’t have much of a choice,” he turned and dashed down the cobbled street. Malcolm turned his head to see multiple red coats on horseback turn a far corner. He looked back at the red clad figure retreating towards the harbor.

“I swear if I get killed, I’m going to murder someone,” he said, then took off.

He tried to hide deep inhales by taking them in in small spurts. The red coat looked to be barely phased by the good fifteen minutes of sprinting. Malcolm looked over at him, he had his hand against his forehead shielding his eyes from the sun. He did a quick rotation, nodded as though he were satisfied with what he saw, then he his two hands up to his mouth. A low bird like whistle sounded from him, and was answered seconds later by a similar tune. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of white, and before he knew what was happening John was standing next to the red coat, casually flipping a knife in his hand.

“How you doin’ Malcolm,” John asked. Malcolm had to keep his eye from twitching.

“Well you know John, I don’t really know. My fucking stand was stolen, which means I’m assuming my weapons were stolen as well. And then your little friend over here swoops in telling me to trust him, when he’s wearing a goddamn red coat uniform. And oh yeah, I can’t even open another fucking business because I’ve been kicked out of Boston, so all in all it’s pretty fucking great.” Malcolm did his best to keep his screaming hushed.

“Huh,” the red coat said “quite a gob on this one, am I right?” Malcolm lunged towards him, but was knocked back by one of John’s massive arms. Malcolm ended up with his back flat on the ground. Sitting up he rubbed his head. He stared at John a little amazed, how could one guy without even trying, knock him flat on his ass?

“Gabriel, you keep wearing that uniform ‘round so casually, yer gonna get killed one day,” John scolded. “I told you it’s for undercover work only, and yet you still decide to strut around like an ass in the thing.” Gabriel seemed to shrink at these words. John turned back to Malcolm. “Sorry about my colleague’s idiocy,” John threw an annoyed glance over his shoulder at Gabriel. He extended his hand to Malcolm.

Malcolm grasped John’s forearm, and was lifted up with ease by the assassin. He dusted off the back of his shirt “thanks.” John smiled, and draped an arm across Malcolm’s shoulder.

“Why don’t you and I take a walk,” John said, starting a trek towards where the brotherhood was currently stationed. Malcolm complied. “I’ve got an offer for you that’s going to make you very happy.” Malcolm narrowed his eyes, and glanced at John in his peripheral view.

“What kind of offer?”

Gabriel cracked one eye open, he had still been shrunken down, afraid that John was going to smack him again. But when he opened his eyes, his fellow men had moved on. He looked around slightly panicked. Gabriel finally spotted them heading towards the way that lead to the back door of the brotherhood’s hideout. He jumped up and down, and waved his arms “hey, hey guys wait fo’ me.” He hurdled a nearby bench, and took off after them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you all so much for reading.  
> Leave some feedback if you want, until next time!

**Author's Note:**

> The first couple chapters of this work will be introduction chapters to each of the new recruits.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and be sure to check back for the next update.


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